


Entree Adagio Variation Coda

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Series: Tiger's Tumblr Ficlets [33]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Ballet, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Gift Fic, Light Angst, M/M, dance, self conscious John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-22 19:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7451875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is injured on a case, and John blames himself. It's his job to keep him safe, and he failed. Determined not to allow himself to fall behind again, John takes up training.<br/>Meanwhile, Sherlock follows suit and goes back to dance. The perfect way to communicate for two men who can't bring themselves to say the words they've been thinking for so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entree Adagio Variation Coda

**Author's Note:**

  * For [penumbra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbra/gifts).



> A prompt fill for Kelley, anotherwellkeptsecret. 
> 
> It gets mentioned in the fic, but not until about halfway through, that John isn't doing the gym stuff to change his appearance. His self consciousness is not centered around the way he looks, but his skills and abilities.

It had been the fence. John blamed it entirely.

John and Sherlock had been on what had seemed like a perfectly normal, almost boring case of mistaken identity and stolen gemstones, when Sherlock had vaulted like a deer over a back garden fence. He was three gardens away and calling for John to hurry up before he had finally managed to scramble over the top. 

Which would have been fine. Really. John knew that he wasn’t as tall, as svelte and graceful as Sherlock. John could live with that. Sherlock had to duck when they went through old doors, and had to turn sideways to fit his hips through the occasional turnstile, and when they were running through trees his hair would snag on branches to slow him down. So John really would have been perfectly fine with needing to climb onto an old milk crate just to reach the top of the fence before oozing down the other side. 

If it hadn’t put him so far behind Sherlock that he hadn’t been there when John heard the sickening thud of something hard and solid impacting with something soft and fleshy. 

Sherlock swore up and down for days that the injury looked worse than it was. He was adamant that he had experienced far worse just tripping over cracks in the pavement. John truly wished he could believe him and dismiss his self doubt. But every time Sherlock shifted and winced, putting his hand to the large bruise across his abdomen, John felt a cold thrill behind his ribs. 

“It could be worse, John. He could have had a gun.”

“That’s the goddamned point!” 

So John promised himself that he would never fall so far behind again. Would never be too late to protect Sherlock. It was his job. It was the only thing he had to offer. 

  
  


“Three more reps. C’mon, John. You can do it. Just three more.” 

The private trainer at the gym was encouraging, and peppy, and supportive. And John wanted to strangle her with his sweat soaked towel. 

Grunting and reminding himself that it was actually a physical impossibility for a person to swallow his own tongue, John swung his arms and jumped in the air to land on the box in front of him, dropping into a squat when he felt his feet firmly on the top until his arse nearly touched his heels. _Keep going, Watson._ he ordered himself as he hopped backwards. The first few times he had done this, he had stumbled backwards and almost landed in a stand of free weights and had at one point done a nose dive straight into the lap of a man built like a royal marine who was tying his shoes. Not his finest moment, but it had definitely gotten his heart rate jumping. As the day went on, he was steadily becoming less ungainly and managed to keep his feet under himself this time around. 

“That’s wonderful, John!” his trainer praised him and John wondered if it would be childish to have a heart attack in rebellion, or maybe just faint in her general direction. 

“Please tell the room to stop spinning.” he croaked instead, and drained half a bottle of water. John poured some of it into his hand and used it to splash over his hair and down the back of his neck. It trickled down his spine and helped to cool him off enough that he no longer thought he might combust right there in the middle of the workout room. 

Bridget, or Brittany, or quite possibly Elise bounced around him in her bright yellow trainers and a pair of exercise togs which looked like they were painted on and gave her an overall look of being aerodynamic enough to be launched into orbit. Any other time, John would have taken the time to appreciate it, but right now he was just trying to keep from blacking out on her, or at the very least keeping her from going blurry around the edges. “Come on, while your heart rate’s still up, let’s do a lap!” 

She dashed off to the indoor running track that circled the room. John glowered and hobbled after her. Once his feet hit the rubberised surface he picked up his pace, focusing on the perky bum in front of him. He was halfway around the track before he realised that the white markings across the bottom of her shorts were words. “If you can read this, congratulations you’re running fast enough.” 

If he had the oxygen to spare, John would have laughed. As it was, he didn’t want to risk coughing up his spleen. 

One lap became two, then three, and eventually seven before John finally had to bring things to a halt. He made his way over to where he’d left his duffel and leaned on the wall then slid down to a crouch. Digging through his bag he found one of the instant ice packs he had brought with him just for this eventuality. John crushed it to get it cold and tucked it under the collar of his shirt to rest on his scar with a hiss of pain. He let his head fall back to thump lightly against the wall, waiting for the delicious numbness to spread down his arm and over his shoulder blade. 

It was more than a bit humiliating. Ten years ago, he would have had a pack on his back that weighed half as much as him, and he would have been sprinting across a sun baked stretch of terrain to pick up and carry a soldier that probably had two stone and at least half a head on him, before running back to safety. Now, he got winded doing a few laps around an air conditioned track. John wished he could blame it on his injury, but the fact of the matter was, he was getting old. 

_ This old dog’s still got some life in him_. John huffed to himself and pushed himself back up the wall, giving his arm a flex to make sure he hadn’t pulled anything. He moved the ice pack to the back of his neck, sighing softly. 

“Will you be back in tomorrow?” his trainer asked, handing him a bottle of vitamin water which he finished in just a few gulps. 

“I’ll come in over my lunch break,” John nodded. He had chosen this gym solely because it was close to his surgery. This was the fifth time John had come in, but the first that he had worked under the guidance of a trainer. 

“All right, good. We’ll focus mostly on cardio tomorrow.” She paced around John, and he could feel her eyes taking him in and he had to fight the urge to flex his back and shoulders in hopes of not being found wanting. “You won’t be much work, really. We just need to get you back to your old figure, instead of creating a whole new one.” She patted John’s good shoulder when she made her way back around to his front. From somewhere- John couldn’t guess exactly _where_ considering her clothes left absolutely no room for imagination let alone storage- she produced her business card and pressed it into John’s hand before jogging over to help someone who was struggling with a set of weights that were clearly too heavy for him. 

_Ah, Brittany._ John tucked the card into one of his duffel pockets and slung the bag over his shoulder before making his way out of the room. 

The shower was heaven. He could have happily stayed in there for the rest of the day, letting the jets of water pulse against his back, sluicing the sweat off his skin. If it weren’t for a group of young gym rats that had come through, talking loudly and snapping each other with their towels, John would have stayed under for longer. It wasn’t their presence that bothered him, it was the way they each stammered to silence when John turned around to face the wall, giving them all a good view of the mangled ruin of his left shoulder blade. 

Rolling his eyes, John rinsed the suds off his skin and grabbed his towel, using his knee to turn off the water. He scrubbed the towel over his hair to dry it off before knotting it at his waist. 

John had to walk past them to get his locker, and was almost past the last of the rats before one spoke up. “You in a gang, bruv?” 

With a silent plea for strength directed at the ceiling, John shook his head. “Soldier,” he explained, reaching his arm over his shoulder to touch the remains of his badge tattoo. All that had survived of it was the image of a snarling dragon being pierced by St. George’s lance, and the scrolling text of  _ Quo Fata Vocant. _

“Cor,” they seemed to breathe as one, but thankfully didn’t clamber for a better look at the injury, letting John make it to his locker in peace. 

He pulled on a fresh pair of pants under his towel and dropped the soggy cloth to the tile floor. After putting on his usual armour of comfortable jeans and a soft, warm jumper, John gathered his things and left the shower room. 

On his way out of the fitness centre, John took a left when he should have gone right, and ended up going down the hall that linked several dance studios. Rather than turning around and making his way back to the stairwell, John decided to take a look at the classes that were in session. The first seemed to be a pensioners class for line dance, while the one across the hall had a gaggle of children rolling around on the floor with ribbons and balls, and calling it Introduction to Dance. 

A room at the end of the hall was empty of students, and John nearly walked past it before he noticed a figure in the mirror and muffled violin notes threading through the air. When John positioned himself to get a better view, the figure was nothing more than an elegant blur of limbs, spinning on the ball of one foot. The rotations didn’t slow, and John had no idea how he was managing to keep upright without losing his balance. He was whipping around, moving faster and faster, snapping his head to keep it just in front of the rest of his body. Every long, lean line of his body was held in perfect check before coming to a sudden stop, facing the mirror. 

John gripped the knob of the door, almost turning it to step in when the dancing blur took shape and he recognised Sherlock panting hard. 

Ducking away from the door, John pressed his back against the wall. He was sure he hadn’t been seen. Sherlock had looked too annoyed with himself to be paying attention to someone lurking around the door like a creep. John slowly turned back, risking another peek through the small safety glass window. 

Sure enough, Sherlock was in there, scrubbing a hand over his face and back through his hair instead of glaring back at him. Throwing his hands down in frustration, Sherlock stepped back into position and rose on his toes with his arms held out from his chest. 

John couldn’t understand why Sherlock would be so angry with himself. The move was beautiful and seemed perfect to him. The skill needed just to keep himself so rigid and contained was impressive. 

Sherlock mouthed something to his reflection and spun again. Impossibly, it was better than the first. He turned in his circles, flicking his bent leg out to keep his momentum before stopping. This time he moved into something that John could only describe as a split in the air. He leaned forward with one foot flat on the floor, the other extending behind him then slowly rising until it was pointing to the ceiling and his forehead was flush with his knee. 

John had to pull himself back again, afraid that Sherlock would be able to see behind him to where he was standing with his face practically pressed to the window. He heard the music stop short, and he could picture Sherlock crossing the floor. John bolted down the hall, and was just turning the corner out of view when he heard the door open. 

He should have taken the time before he had fled, to wipe the window clean of the fog that had spread over the glass from his hot breath. 

  
  


“What _are_ you staring at, John?” 

It was later that night, after dinner, and Sherlock hadn’t said a word about where he had been that day. 

John opened his mouth to ask how Sherlock had known he was staring in the first place, since Sherlock hadn’t lifted his head up from the book he was reading for the last hour and had his back to John. He closed it again and shook his head. Of course Sherlock could tell he was leering at him. 

Sherlock had his legs slung over the arm of his chair, one foot bouncing, his toes pointed in a way that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. He was reading slowly, savouring the gradual build of the plot of the story, in a well thumbed, much loved old book. From the cup on the floor next to him, he would pause in his reading to take sips of tea that had long since grown cold. 

It was such a relaxed, contented, domestic little scene that John could allow himself to pretend for a moment that it hadn’t almost come to an end a week ago because of his inadequacies. 

“Nothing,” John shook his head with a quiet sigh and shifted on the sofa to get more comfortable on his side, his head propped up on his hand. “Just watching you.” 

“Liar,” Sherlock hummed and put his cup back down on its saucer with soft clink. He licked his thumb to turn his page, his fingertip leading his eyes on the page, occasionally tracing a word that caught his attention, his lips silently forming the shape of it. Those lips were curved up at the corners in a secret smile, so different from the disgusted scowl he had given himself in the dance studio. 

“I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t call me on that anymore.” 

“You agreed. I did nothing of the sort.” 

“Drink your damn tea.” 

“Yes, doctor.” 

The smile grew and John felt one of his own growing in response. How Sherlock managed to do that to him, he figured he would probably never know.

  
  


John wasn’t entirely sure how it became a routine. He would spend an hour getting his arse kicked by a trainer who seemed to be made of pure energy and positive reinforcement, he would shower, then he would watch Sherlock dance. Then that night they wouldn’t speak of it. Sherlock wouldn’t bring up that John didn’t get winded as easily when they ran after criminals, and John wouldn’t mention how elegant Sherlock looked as he spun and leapt through the air, twisting and gliding across the dancefloor. 

“I can handle a bit more weight.” John grunted as he shifted on the weight bench, putting his shoulders under the bar. 

“Are you sure, John? I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” Brittany asked before putting another ten pound weight on each end of the bar, securing them in place. 

“Positive, I can manage.” he assured her, wiping his face on his upper arms to clean the sweat off. Once the weights were in place, John carefully lifted the bar out of its cradle and lowered it to his chest. He checked his grip to make sure it wouldn’t slip out of his hands before raising it up again. He was able to do ten reps with it before his shoulder loudly protested and threatened to rebel. John just managed to get it back into the cradle without assistance. Sitting up with a groan, John rotated his arm and massaged his shoulder. 

“Why the weights this week?” Brittany asked when they took a break. 

John gave a lopsided shrug and took a long drink of his water. “Just want to know I can lift things if I need to.” 

His trainer looked at the bar which still held eighty pounds on each end. “Things, or people?” 

John couldn’t help thinking that he should have known that he would end up getting paired with a trainer that could not only run circles around him, but also read him like a book. 

This had been going on for almost two weeks, John pushing himself to the edge of his limit with his trainer, stopping himself just shy of tossing himself over that edge. He didn’t look much different, but he certainly felt a difference when he realised that he was able to use his left arm with the same strength and dexterity as his right, or when he made it another lap around the track than he had been able to the day before. 

It was never about his appearance. John wasn’t seeking to lose the soft flesh around his waist, or to tone the muscles of his back. All he wanted was to be able to keep up with Sherlock. To run beside him, and to stay at his side as they went headlong into danger. 

He was actually very pleased with the way he looked, and could stand naked in front of a mirror without giving himself much harsh criticism. He’d earned his greying hair and baggy eyes. Each mark and scar held a piece of the map that had led him to this point in his life. The faded pink scar that followed the curve of his pelvis after getting his appendix removed at twelve, had sparked his fascination with medicine and surgery. Below his knee, the nearly vanished pattern of peppered skin that had shredded on a rock during his first rugby game, helped him to fall in love with the sport and started him on his path to a semi-professional career. The still pink mark on the side of his right index finger, where it had been caught in his father’s slammed office door after being told he’d be damned if a son of his would get another brass farthing out of him for school if he didn’t show him some more respect. Three weeks later John had applied for the army.

All of those were tiny stepping stones compared to the most prominent. A single bullet that had ripped through him and changed everything, left the largest wound behind. Under his collarbone, an entrance wound the size of a kiss, and an exit that had nearly taken his heart out with it, had torn away all of his plans for his future. Surgical training was moot if a doctor couldn’t stop his dominant hand from trembling. Or keep his bum leg from going weak at times of stress. A shining military career ended with a bang. 

And brought him back to London, and sent him straight to Sherlock Holmes and a world of mystery, adventure, and amazement.

Taking a deep breath to clear his head, John changed and shouldered his bag, telling himself to stop wool gathering.  

John wasn’t able to see Sherlock in his usual studio when he went down to have a peek in at him. He was certain that he was in the fitness centre, since he had caught sight of the trim of his scarf poking out of the door of one of the lockers when he had changed into his joggers before his own workout. 

Craning his neck and trying to see around the angle of the door through the window, John rested his hand on the wood for balance. If he had noticed that the door wasn’t completely closed, he never would have touched it. Instead, he trusted that it was securely shut and locked, and leaned his full weight on it.

And hit the floor like a sack of hammers when it swung open. 

John decided to stay where he was until his dignity grew back, while he heard a slow, sarcastic clapping from the corner. 

“He’s beauty, and he’s grace…” a rich voice sang out, with a hint of laughter playing around the edges. “He’s probably got bruises on his face.”

“Shut up a lot,” John groaned, rolling over onto his back to glower up at Sherlock. “What the hell were you doing, hiding in the corner?” 

“I was hardly hiding,” Sherlock reached down to give John a hand up, pulling him to his feet. He briefly checked him over to make sure he wasn’t actually injured during his tumble. “I was just standing out of view to see if you’d actually come in for once.” 

John sternly told himself that middle-aged professional men did not stick their tongues out at their friends no matter how much they may deserve it, and dusted off his knees. “It didn’t seem like you were interested in having an audience.” John pointed out. “You always seemed so angry with yourself when you were dancing.” 

Sherlock huffed out an irritated breath and helped John to pick off some dust bunnies from his shirt.  “I wasn’t able to do the combo I was trying to practice. Of course I was angry.” 

Brow furrowed, John shot Sherlock a surprised look. “It looked like you were doing it perfectly.” 

“That’s because you don’t know what to look for.” Sherlock padded back across the studio to the corner where he had a small speaker dock for his phone set up on a table. 

Three of the four walls in the room were made up of mirrors from floor to ceiling, making it very difficult for John to conceal the fact that he was looking Sherlock over. He couldn’t deny that Sherlock looked incredible. That was nothing new, but the clothes definitely were. 

Sherlock was topless, with a pair of dark grey tights that clung to him like a second skin. They were close fitting enough that John could see the lines under them that were only over the top of his hips. “Are you wearing a thong?” he blurted out. 

Through his reflection, Sherlock stared at John for what felt like a full minute. “It’s called a dance belt.” he said flatly. After a moment, the corner of his mouth twitched before he gave John a crooked smile. “But yes. It’s basically a thong.” Reaching back, Sherlock hooked his finger through the tights into the strap and pulled it out just far enough to let it go to snap back against his tailbone. John winced slightly at the sound of it hitting skin. There was no way that could have been pleasant, but Sherlock managed to keep a straight face. “It’s no different from you wearing a jockstrap when you played rugby. And from the pictures I’ve seen, your shorts didn’t leave much more to the imagination than these do.” Sherlock bobbed his eyebrows and uncapped a bottle of water before taking a long sip. 

“How- Never mind. Of course you found pictures.”

“Blackheath is a world famous rugby club, John. And considering how thirsty some of our fans are… I’m sure countless people have found those pictures. Black and red stripes suit you. And those little shorts do wonders for your legs.” Sherlock tossed John the bottle of water with a devilish glint in his eye. 

He caught the bottle with one hand just in time to stop it from colliding with his face, and shot Sherlock a dirty look. “What have you been doing here?” John asked after wiping a spill of water off of his chin, determined to change the subject before he got any more embarrassed than he already was. Only Sherlock could make him blush about something he was actually very proud of. 

Playing with Blackheath had been one of the highlights of his life before the army. One of the very few times before Sherlock that he had felt any sort of connection and camaraderie with other people. Even now, when his old teammates were complaining about mortgage payments and taking the piss out of each other over who had the most grey hairs, that bond was still there. It was rare of course, but from time to time some rugby enthusiast would recognise him from his old matches. There was a sadistic little thrill that John would get, when one of those people would trot across a street to see him, while Sherlock pouted and huffed beside him. It was fleeting, but John would allow himself to bask in the brief feeling of there being at least one person out there that didn’t see him as the sidekick. 

“The same as you, I imagine.” If Sherlock was reading the thoughts going through John’s mind, he chose not to mention it. 

“I’m definitely not here dancing.” John snorted and set the bottle down next to the speakers. Glancing at the screen on Sherlock’s phone, he saw that the screen was paused partway through a song by Adam Lambert. 

“No, you’re here working out, and honing your skills. That’s what I’m doing here as well.” Sherlock explained. 

"We've never had a case where you needed to dance." John pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest and drumming his fingertips on his biceps.

"No need to remind me of that, John." Sherlock sulked, his lips pressed together in an irritated moue of disappointment. "Before I met you, I also never had a case where I was nearly strangled. Twice. Or where I was hit by multiple cars." Sherlock began tapping his fingers of his right hand onto his left palm, forcibly enough to make a soft smack with each new point. "Or where I needed to steal a double decker bus. Where I had to slog through a moor in Devon, or had to deal with genetically engineered super animals. That glowed in the dark."

"All right, Sherlock I get it." John tried to interrupt, but Sherlock had a sinister glimmer of determination in his eyes, and a toothy grin.

"Or needed to defend myself with a fossilised femur." he pushed on.

"Fine! You like to keep-"

"Or had to dress up like a bloody comic book ninja to stage a fake battle in front of an antique book dealer in Soho."

"Hey, that one wasn't my fault!" John protested, stabbing a finger at Sherlock, but couldn't help the start of a smile that began to play at the corners of his lips despite the efforts to keep his stern expression. Before he could contain it, a small giggle erupted.

As usual, it was infectious. Sherlock started with a snort. Then a chuckle. Then soon enough they were leaning on each other with their backs to the mirrored wall, shoulders bumping and jostling as they giggled themselves breathless.

“Really, John. Before you came along and started cataloguing my cases-”

“Our cases, thank you.” 

“Fine, _our cases._ I lived a perfectly respectable life of quiet scientific nerdity, playing with my chemicals, publishing papers, and occasionally telling Lestrade to look under a murder victim’s bed linens. I never had to concern myself with impressing someone by putting on a fancy dress costume and getting knocked about with rubber staves.” 

"At least you looked like a proper ninja in that one." John sighed, rubbing his stomach to ease the stitch that had formed there from his laughter. "I looked like a gothic Oompa Loompa."

Another giggle bubbled up from Sherlock and when it eased off, he wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. "I looked like some sort of bondage wet dream."

John swallowed thickly, and waited until he was sure he wouldn't stammer before trying to speak. "That's..." And of course, he failed. "That's a pretty apt description." he finished, clearing his throat. When Sherlock looked at him with a raised eyebrow and a quirked up half-smile, John jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow. "Shut it, Sherlock. You're standing there in a pair of tights that leave... Absolutely nothing to the imagination." he croaked and gestured to Sherlock's lack of an outfit with flailing hands.

Sherlock looked down at himself then gave John a sympathetic glance. "I hate to destroy your delusions, John. But dance belts are very padded. I don't start for about three inches below this thing."

Sure that he probably looked like he was having a stroke, John put his hand to his face, dragging it down. "That's not even remotely close to what I meant." he insisted. After years of wearing a protective cup and jockstrap for rugby, John knew that most athletes tended to look a great deal more... ample. Locker room joking and rough housing was usually centered around that.

"You're so charming when you look like you're about to swallow your tongue." Sherlock crooned, but thankfully decided to take pity on John, nudging him with his hip before pushing off from the mirror. "We've also never had a case where I needed to play the violin." he said quietly, moving across the room so gracefully that to John, it looked like he was gliding over ice.

"Playing the violin helps you to think."

Sherlock smiled and rose on his toes then spun in a circle. "And because I enjoy it. I love to compose and play. It quiets my mind, and helps me to focus. Unlike the violin, dance helps me not to think. It turns everything off and gives me room to breathe." Moving his arms, Sherlock stretched them out, his body one smooth, lean line from his fingertips to his toes. His eyes were heavy-lidded and dreamy, his face serene. "It calms me down when my mind is racing a mile a minute. Too many facts, and pieces of information, assaulting my senses from all directions. She is sleeping with her sister's boyfriend. He is stealing from his mother. That man is thinking about leaving his wife and children. That girl is worried she's going to be cut from her maths club. That boy is in love with his best friend but afraid to speak up for fear of losing him. Neither knows the other feels the same way. That woman forgot her keys at the bakery but thinks they were stolen by her assistant. That young father questions the paternity of his children but loves them fiercely and will win the suit for custody." As he spoke, with each phantom deduction, Sherlock moved himself into a new position. Flowing from step to step and contorting his body into poses, Sherlock buried his fingers into his hair with his eyes closed.

"When I dance, it's just me. Just my body, and no one else is there, other than whoever might be watching me. And right now, you are too focused on my body to be thinking of other things." He was breathing fast, but John couldn't be certain that it was from the effort of his performance. His cheeks were flushed, his lips slightly parted when he wasn't speaking. "You're not thinking about cases or patients or your next blog post. None of those things are coming from you to me. You're too easy to read, John. A twitch of your eyebrows or a twist of your lips, and I can see into your mind as easily as if you were talking to me. But right now, you're silent. You are as completely engrossed with what I am doing, as I am. There is nothing more in this room than you, and me, and movement." With a soft gasp, Sherlock spun himself to a halt in front of John, his chest rising and falling hard, a faint sheen of sweat over his bare chest.

"You thought you were going to get me killed." Sherlock put his hand to John's chest, just above his heart, his fingers tracing the line of his scar through his shirt. "You've been thinking about nothing else for days. It's been pushing you so hard that your mind isn't with me when we're at home. We talk, but part of you is away, thinking about how you believe that you almost failed me. You _didn't_ John. If you want to blame someone, you can blame me. I wasn’t fast enough to duck away from the blow. Or to move back. Or swift enough to move in and disarm the criminal before he could take a swing at me. Or more importantly, good enough to catch him before he had a chance to run.” Closing his eyes for a moment, Sherlock’s fingers flexed into John’s shirt, crumpling the cloth in a fist. “I was hurt, but it happens. This wasn’t even the worst I’ve been injured since we started doing cases together. Our work is dangerous." Sherlock dropped his hand and chewed on his lip, staring hard at the floor for a moment before huffing out a frustrated breath. His hands were fisted at his sides, pinching his tights between his knuckles to pluck at them. "It is more dangerous when you're miles away in your head. I am trusting that you'll come back to me soon."

Turning on his heel, Sherlock disconnected his phone from the speaker and pulled a shirt over his head and a pair of loose shorts on over his tights. "Are we going home, John?" he asked softly.

  
  


_I am trusting that you'll come back to me soon_.

John lay awake that night, staring out into the silent darkness of his bedroom. He had his hands tucked behind his head, threaded through his hair to scratch at his scalp.

He had expected Sherlock to figure out what was going on, what he was doing with his lunch breaks. He knew that he would be able to figure out that he chose to cycle to and from work even in the rain, rather than taking the tube most days, despite Sherlock usually being asleep when he left. And more importantly, why he had been taking those measures and what had been going through his mind. John wasn't even surprised that Sherlock had known that he had been skulking around the door to his little dance studio to spy on him for days on end.

What he hadn't expected, of course, was that Sherlock would understand why he was putting himself back into training. John had braced himself for mocking laughter or a string of deductions about his inadequacies and self deprecation. Instead, Sherlock was able to relate. John supposed that he had gotten too used to Sherlock being so proficient at everything that he did, it never really occurred to him that he would have the same feelings of self doubt that John did. 

Sitting up, John scrubbed a hand over his face and fumbled on his side table for his phone. He piled a few pillows behind himself to get comfortable and plugged in a pair of headphones.

While scanning through the results for his search of _Male Ballet Dancer_ on YouTube, John dismissed the first few that seemed to be clips from a gay porno. Reminding himself to put on better search controls later, John clicked on a video and turned his phone over to bring it to full screen.

The dancer was lithe and smoothly muscled. His frame was deceptively thin, but John easily recognised the strength that was there in his arms and legs.

Countless times John had walked in on Sherlock going around naked. Whether it was because he had forgotten to take a towel with him to have a bath, or because he was decided to make a mad dash from his bedroom to the living room to grab a book from the shelf in nothing but his socks, or more often than not, it was because Sherlock had simply decided that he wasn't interested in putting clothes on and would shuffle about in the buff. When John would try to protest, Sherlock would just shrug and complain that his clothes had been touching him and that he didn't like it, before flopping on the sofa and demanding John hand him his coffee and to stop staring.

After all those times of seeing him, John knew that Sherlock had the same physique. Whipcord lean, his muscles weren't showy, but possessed impressive strength when Sherlock chose to display it. Those shows of strength were usually unconscious, Sherlock lifting the table to chase after a runaway pen, or picking Mrs. Hudson up to jump onto the desk to escape a mouse that had strayed into the living room. Very rarely did he make a point of intentionally showing off, and those few times were always good natured teasing directed at John.

Watching the video, John could imagine Sherlock performing those maneuvers. His body moving and gliding across the dance floor or leaping into the air. The performance by the professional was excellent, but the choreography didn't have the same raw quality that Sherlock's impulsive steps had. It was scripted, and without true feeling save for what the dancer was drawing for the role. With Sherlock, all the emotion had been simmering just below the surface, communicating his frustration and tension with every shift and flow. It was instinctive and natural and spoke volumes of what was going through his mind.

“Shit,” John muttered and turned off the video. The dancer just couldn't compare to Sherlock even with his education and skill. Like with so many other aspects of his life, as an untrained amateur, Sherlock outshone the professionals.

With his phone set aside on the table again, John passed the night fitfully and woke in the morning bleary-eyed and groggy.

He took the tube to work that day.

  
  
  


“Something's wrong today, John.” His trainer observed as she watched him.

He started and turned to look back at her, but had to tell himself that it was no shock that she had figured it out. He had been taking out his frustration on the hanging speed bag for the last ten minutes or so. His knuckles were taped, but he had been going long enough that his skin was split and starting to bleed. John blinked down at his hands when Brittany gestured to them. Flexing his fingers to make sure he hadn't broken or dislocated anything, John shook his hands out. “Sorry, I was miles away.” Sherlock's words from the day before came to his mind and John cleared his throat quietly. “Wasn't paying attention to what I was doing.”

“Want to talk it out, or just punch it out?” she asked.

John laughed dryly and shook his head. “No, definitely not talking. I’m not much of a talker. More of a quiet scowler.” He unwound the tape from his knuckles and stuck one in his mouth to stop the bleeding. Not the most hygienic or medically sound method of cleaning it, but he could wash it later. 

Brittany pulled on a pair of padded strike gloves and stood in front of John. “All right, then punch it out. Whatever you're training for, I doubt your target is going to stand still. No point in working on your stamina and strike, if you're only able to punch at something in one spot.”

Winding some fresh tape around his knuckles and between his fingers, this time with a strip of gauze for padding, John furrowed his brow. “You don't happen to have an older ginger sibling with a superiority complex, do you?” he drawled and took his position.  

She was right. Building the strength of his blow or working on his hand eye coordination was all well and good, but it would be useless if he wasn't able to connect with the target. Having to turn to keep up with Brittany and land his punches in the middle of the strike pad slowed him down just enough that he lost some of that strength.

John was a brawler, not a boxer. Years of rugby, playing against men taller and larger and stronger, had honed those techniques. He felt far more suited to tackling an opponent to the ground to incapacity them, but there was something so viscerally satisfying about connecting a punch and feeling flesh bruise and split under his fist.

By the time he felt he had done enough for the day to justify the trip to the fitness center, John was drained and sore and pleased with himself. His shower was longer than normal, to help loosen the tight muscles between his shoulders and along the back of his neck.

After he washed up and bandaged his hands, instead of changing into his street clothes, John put on a pair of yoga bottoms that he had felt like an absolute tit buying, and a snug singlet. He made his way down to the dance studios.

“Sherlock, you in here?” John poked his head around the door and smiled when he saw Sherlock sitting on the floor. He had his legs outstretched in front of him, and was holding his feet to limber up his limbs and back. “You know, one of these days I'm going to walk in on you giving yourself a tongue bath, and I won't even bat an eye.”

Blinking rapidly for a moment, Sherlock seemed to try to process that before breaking into a grin. “When I was young, I used to watch Redbeard twist himself in knots to chew at flea bites on his hindquarters, and I always wondered if a human would be able to do that. The closest I can get is-” To demonstrate, Sherlock straightened and rotated, bending down to put his cheek next to his thigh.

“Most blokes would try for the...” John coughed into his fist, his cheeks turning pink.

Once again, as he untangled himself from his position Sherlock blinked, this time with a falsely innocent expression. “For the what, John?” he asked, folding his hands in his lap and looking up at John.

John reached down and hauled Sherlock to his feet, grunting quietly with the effort. “You enjoy it, don't you?”

“Making you blush and stammer? Yes, absolutely.” Sherlock beamed, his entire face lighting up. His smile was so broad that his eyes crinkled.

His mood spread to John, and he couldn't help smiling in response. John gave his fingers a squeeze and let him go. “Well, you're damn good at it.” He stepped away and went to the corner where Sherlock had his speakers set up. The phone was plugged in, but nothing was turned on yet. John picked up the phone and swiped his thumb over the screen and tapped in Sherlock's password.

John and Sherlock had very different tastes in music, to the point where it occasionally started audio battles in the flat. Sherlock would launch the starting volley with some Fall Out Boy on repeat. John would counter with a bass heavy song by Bush. The war would wage on with Breaking Benjamin which would lead to Imagine Dragons, which in turn would give way to R.E.M. and the skirmish wouldn't end until Mrs. Hudson finally stormed upstairs and took away their stereo for the rest of the day while muttering about being too old to be caring for a pair of children and threatening to put them in their respective corners.

Despite the disagreements, John was able to find a group of songs in Sherlock's playlist that he felt would suit them both, and plugged the phone back into the speaker dock.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock's brows twitched together. His eyes ticked down to the thick gauze wrapping around John’s knuckles and the bruises that were spread down the back of each hand.

John loved that after all this time he was able to confound Sherlock from time to time. It was rare, but being able to surprise a genius was a definite ego stroke and almost made all the times he looked like an idiot next to him worth it.

“Quieting your mind.” he replied and turned the music on. John checked the knots on his bandages then took a deep, steadying breath before turning to Sherlock.

For a moment, Sherlock looked baffled. He closed his eyes and let the music wash over him, breathing slowly through his mouth. After a few bars of music, Sherlock opened his eyes. He looked peaceful and relaxed, his chest rising and falling steadily with each breath.

It was beautiful to watch. John knew it wasn't completely normal to think that about someone, especially ones best friend, but he couldn't help himself. Sherlock was stunning.

If he were to be honest with himself, he would know that he had been thinking that more and more lately. Before it had always come as intrusive thoughts while he was watching Sherlock play the violin, or pace around a crime scene. But that had always felt natural to him. In John's mind, his way of explaining away those intrusions was that he was admiring his skill. Right now, there was no way to hide from it. All Sherlock was doing was standing there in front of him, breathing. And it was beautiful.

John was rarely honest with himself.

He licked his lips and ducked his head, needing to give himself a chance to focus and brace himself. The next song had begun to play before John trusted himself that he was ready.

Stepping up to Sherlock, he rested his hands on his waist. The compact muscles in his upper arms bunched with the effort to heft Sherlock in the air. “Quiet yet?” he asked with a crooked smile.

Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders for support, being careful not to put too much pressure on his injury. He was grinning so bright his face practically glowed. “The volume's definitely lowering.” he murmured and nodded so his hair bounced around his face.

John would never have the same grace and fluidity of movement that Sherlock had, but he slid one foot along the floor, the other crossing over behind it to turn them in a circle. As he went, he lifted Sherlock higher. He braced one hand on the wide swell of Sherlock's hip, the other against his ribs and extended his arms straight above his head to hold Sherlock up. 

He swung him back down, but didn’t let his feet touch the ground. Sherlock read the slightest shift and change in John’s muscles to anticipate each step. It was like a fencing match, knowing where their opponent would move next by subtle signs like the set of their shoulders or the turn of their hips. 

Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s neck and leaned back over his biceps. He walked through the air, appearing to plant his feet on nothing as he flipped slowly backwards. John kept a hold of him while he landed. To his shock, Sherlock sank down into a split, one leg stretched out forward, the other back behind him as he gradually rocked down to rest his forehead against his knee before sitting back up, his head slack to the side. 

John walked around him, a hand on his neck as he did his circuit. When he reached his back, John slid his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. It was softer than John had imagined. If he allowed himself to dwell on it, he would admit that he had imagined it a great deal. Sherlock’s hair was thick, but despite that, it was easy for John to card his fingers through it and lightly graze his nails against his scalp. He stroked his hand back down to Sherlock’s neck and gave a gentle touch of pressure to guide him back to his feet. 

By now, the song had changed pitch, slowing and deepening. John still had his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck. He used his thumb to rotate his head, rolling it from side to side before pulling Sherlock flush to his chest. 

“You’ve done research.” Sherlock murmured, his voice low and languid. 

Each step took them around the room, thighs touching. It wasn’t clear who was doing the leading. They seemed to be taking turns with each rotation. A give and take between them that was almost a battle for control. 

“A bit,” John admitted. His own voice was husky. He told himself that it was from the effort and strain of the dance. If only he was better at lying to himself than he was to others. “Watched some videos.” 

They twirled together, Sherlock sliding his foot back and up so he was balanced on the ball of the other. John held his waist, tightening his grip so he could keep him close. 

“I’m impressed with how well you picked it up. You’re an instinctive dancer.”  Sherlock reached back to take John’s hands and broke away. “I’d wager that your sport history helps. And whatever you have been doing to get back into training. You move beautifully, John.” 

“Only because of you.” John tugged Sherlock back and looped his arm over his head and down his back so they were standing side by side, facing in opposite directions. “You are a brilliant dancer. Anyone that’s moving with you is going to be beautiful at it.” 

It was like running during a case. Sherlock was always one step ahead of John, but John was there to support and keep him going. One would reach out for the other, and the hand was already there to clasp their fingers. Someone would stumble and without breaking stride, the other would keep them upright and going forward. Sherlock would need to reach a high window, and John would brace himself to pick him up. John would hesitate before leaping over a ditch, and Sherlock would be calling his encouragement without turning around, having already sailed over it like some sort of long legged courser. 

Now as they danced, John felt that same sensation. They worked together so seamlessly that no step was out of place and even as they bickered wordlessly over who would lead the other, it didn’t interfere. John wasn’t as flexible or graceful as Sherlock, but he matched him step for step, spin for spin. 

They came face to face, and John rested his hand on Sherlock’s waist as his friend rested nervous fingers against John’s neck. His fingertips toyed with the wisps of sandy hair and his thumb fit perfectly into the hollow behind his ear. Their free hands met and they laced their fingers together. 

Sherlock’s hands were the first thing he had noticed about him. Those long, delicate fingers holding a pipette with such dexterity had drawn John’s eyes when he had walked into that lab a lifetime ago. They were sensitive and strong. Expressive, flashing in the air, his fingers darting around while Sherlock made his deductions or flicking out to dismiss someone’s ignorance. 

Those hands eventually guided his eyes up along slim arms to a pair of narrow, almost dainty shoulders. Then a long pale expanse of throat, and a soft jawline before he finally could bring himself to look into the most extraordinary eyes he had ever seen. 

Sherlock’s eyes were shining down at him now, heavy and hooded, and an earthy shade of green. 

The song changed abruptly, and John faltered in his steps. He tightened his grip on Sherlock to keep upright, but the stagger brought them impossibly closer. John could feel Sherlock’s heart beating through his chest. “Sorry,” he mumbled and swallowed hard enough he felt his throat bob. John straightened up again and he was worried the tenuous closeness of the moment was broken. 

Instead, Sherlock smiled warmly and ushered John around again. “You have nothing to apologise for.” he insisted and caressed the back of John’s neck. 

It almost sent him stumbling again. 

_Get a hold of yourself, Watson. It’s Sherlock. He is just absorbed in the dance_. John chided himself harshly, but he gave his head a rapid shake in the hopes that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to guess at his thoughts. 

Sherlock’s lips pursed, and John knew that he had probably guessed what was going through his head. To try to distract him, John picked up the pace. Holding Sherlock firmly, he took the lead. The song had changed to an up tempo beat, still with a heavy bass to count out their steps. 

In each other’s arms, they whirled around the room. The mirrors showed them from every angle, but John couldn’t bring himself to break eye contact with Sherlock. He used his hips and thighs to guide him, applying the slightest amount of pressure to tell him which direction to turn and how far to step. It was easy for him, considering that Sherlock seemed to be made completely of leg and brain while John thought of his own as short little trotters. He relied on his strength to position Sherlock. 

Rushing forward, he took a dozen rapid steps from one corner of the room to the center, and tossed Sherlock away from him. Legs flying back, Sherlock braced his hands on John’s shoulders for support so he could leap up. When he landed, it was on his toes with his knees bent and his body lowered as he slid himself down John’s torso. Coming to a full crouch, he wrapped his arms around John’s waist and pressed his face into his stomach.

John slipped his hands under Sherlock’s arms and lifted him back to his feet. “You’re grinning,” he observed with a pleased smile. “Enjoying yourself?” 

Sherlock hooked his thigh over John’s hip, his heel tucked above the hollow of his knee to keep out of the way as John spun them both around. “Absolutely,” he breathed out and nodded. His chest was heaving against John’s, but it didn’t seem to be from the exertion of their dance. “I’ve never done this with another person. I had no idea…” 

With his hand on Sherlock’s thigh, John dipped him back so he was bent over his forearm. That long throat was exposed and John felt a mad impulse to bury his face into it and breathe in the scent from the beads of sweat that were shining there. He could see Sherlock’s heartbeat pounding in the side of his neck. “No idea of what?” 

“How strong you really are. How it felt to dance with another person. How wonderful it feels to have the chaos running through my mind easing off and letting me just _be_. Just… no idea, John.” His fingers slid into the hair at the back of John’s neck, twisting it almost roughly into his fist. 

John’s eyes fluttered closed and he gasped out, his head tipping back to press into Sherlock’s fist as he felt goosebumps race over his neck and down his arms. “Neither did I,” he replied, his tongue darting out to stroke over his bottom lip before he bit down on it. His teeth left his lip red and dimpled. “Dance has always been something to do because other people wanted it. A date wanted to go to a club, or I was expected to do it at a wedding. It’s never been about…” 

“Communication,” Sherlock finished for him and straightened up. “Expression,” He slid his foot down the back of John’s calf and hooked it behind his ankle to pull his leg forward. “Connection,”

Chuckling, low and rich in the back of his throat, John pressed his knee between Sherlock’s thighs. “Oh, it was always about connection.” he murmured and leaned forward to put himself into Sherlock’s space, their bodies moulded together. He continued to surge forward, forcing Sherlock to lean back and cling to him. One of Sherlock’s feet came up off the ground and he wrapped his leg around John’s waist. The moment it was around him, John rose back up and grabbed Sherlock’s other leg to pick it up. 

The trust in Sherlock’s eyes was stunning. He made no attempt to help John keep him up, and showed complete confidence in him and his strength. 

“And we have hardly ever needed words to speak to each other.” John pointed out with a smirk. 

In an unconscious mimic of John’s own nervous tic, Sherlock licked his lips slowly and nodded. “It makes you the perfect partner.”

Easing Sherlock back to his feet, John kept his hands on his hips, and for the first time, he glanced down to make sure his grip and feet were positioned properly. “I try my hardest for you.” 

“I know, John. You’ve never let me down.” 

With a burst of strength, John tossed Sherlock up. Straight in the air over his head, John lifted him toward the ceiling. Confident that he could hold him, John slowly took one hand away and let his arm extend out to the side for balance while Sherlock lowered one of his own to rest on John’s shoulder. The other went up, with his legs held at the perfect angle to distribute his weight exactly where it needed to be. 

John looked up at Sherlock, and held his eyes with his own. From the speakers in the corner, their song came to a crescendo before sputtering to a finish. He brought Sherlock back to the floor. 

When he landed, John lifted his head. Their faces were so close that his nose brushed against Sherlock’s chin. He could feel their breath mingling hot and moist together, and his breath caught in his throat. John’s eyes darted quickly to Sherlock’s lips then back up to his eyes. 

“I want you to do it.” 

“...What?” John swallowed, his fingers flexing against Sherlock’s hips, twisting into the waistband of his tights. 

“Kiss me.” Sherlock clarified. “I want you to kiss me. You want it as well. I am telling you that you have my permission. You don’t need to hesit-”

John was kissing him. Trailing his hand up Sherlock’s back until he could cradle him by the neck, John rose up on his toes, and he was kissing him deep and gentle. 

Sherlock stiffened against him, clearly surprised that John had given in to the desire, and allowed himself to take that leap. Inhaling sharply through his nose, he quickly relaxed and sagged against John. 

Gradually, reluctantly, John drew away. He looked up at Sherlock and opened his mouth to speak. Then realised that there was no reason. There was nothing for either of them to say that hadn’t gone through the other’s mind at one point or another. They were two men with the communication skills of a pair of rocks, and to try to put into words what he was feeling in that moment, John knew it would spoil it. There would be time later to discuss the future and to make confessions. Together they would work out just what it was that they needed and wanted and what they were going to share. 

For now, there was no rush to put a name to what was happening between them. A silent pas de deux that had begun that afternoon from across a lab. A broken down toy soldier, discarded and alone. A young man, hardly more than a boy in so many ways, hiding behind a stern mask and a microscope. They had come together, and moved as one, steps in harmony. One would stumble, but the other was there to pick them back up. Their paces weren’t always on rhythm, but they had moved them forward to reach this point. This was by no means the finale. 

With a smile, John closed his mouth and started a new step, taking Sherlock with him. His eyes were alight, and his cheeks flushed, and Sherlock had a knowing expression on his face. 

They have hardly ever needed words to speak to one another.

**Author's Note:**

> I really liked the personal trainer I made for this. I might use her in something else.


End file.
